“All right, Tactical,” he said finally. “If they want to play games, let’s play back. Get me a hull map off their lead unit.”

  “Aye, aye, Sir!” There was a grin in Carstairs’ normally cold voice, and McKeon’s lips twitched as he heard it. The radar pulse it would take to map a ship’s hull at this range would practically melt the LACs’ receivers, and most navies would understand the message he was about to send as well as Carstairs did—it was a galaxy-wide way of shouting “Hey, stupid!” at someone. Of course, these people had been isolated for so long they might not realize how rude Troubadour was being . . . but he could hope.

  * * *

  “What the—?!” Early gasped, and Danville winced as a threat receiver squealed in raucous warning.

  “Engage!” he snapped.

  * * *

  HMS Troubadour had no warning at all. Lasers are light-speed weapons; by the time your sensors realize someone has fired them at you, they’ve already hit you.

  Each of the Masadan LACs mounted a single laser, and if Troubadour’s sidewalls had been up, the crude, relatively low-powered weapons would have been harmless. But her sidewalls weren’t up, and Commander McKeon’s face went whiter than bone as energy fire smashed into his ship’s starboard bow. Plating shattered, damage and collision alarms shrieked, and Troubadour lurched as the kinetic energy bled into her hull.

  “My God, they’ve fired on us!” Carstairs sounded more outraged than frightened, but McKeon had no time to worry about his tac officer’s sensitivities.

  “Hard skew port!” he snapped.

  The helmsman was as startled as anyone else, but twenty years of trained reflex took charge. He snapped the ship up on her port side, simultaneously slewing her bow around to jerk the throat of her impeller wedge away from the enemy, even before he acknowledged the order. It was well he did, for the next salvo of lasers struck harmlessly against the belly of Troubadour’s wedge just as her general quarters alarm began to scream.

  An icicle of relief stabbed through McKeon as his wedge intercepted the incoming fire, but lurid damage and pressure loss signals flashed, and none of his people had been expecting a thing. None of them had been vac-suited, and that meant some of them were dead. He prayed there weren’t too many of them, yet even that was almost an afterthought, for he’d already seen the missiles streaming past Troubadour towards the cruisers astern of her.

  * * *

  “Skipper! Those LACs have fired on Troubadour!” Lieutenant Cardones blurted. And then—“Missiles incoming! Impact in four-five seconds—mark!”

  Honor’s head whipped up in pure disbelief. Fired? That was insane!

  “Point defense free! Sound general quarters!”

  Ensign Wolcott stabbed the GQ button at Cardones’ elbow. The tac officer was too busy; he’d anticipated his captain’s orders, and his hands were already flying across his panel.

  “Zulu-Two, Chief Killian!” Honor snapped.

  “Aye, aye, Ma’am. Executing Zulu-Two.”

  Killian sounded almost detached, not with professional calm, but as if the real shock hadn’t hit him yet, yet his response was almost as quick as Cardones’. Fearless squirmed into evasive action—not that she had the base velocity to make it very effective—and Honor heard the pop of pierced upholstery as Nimitz’s claws sank into the back of her chair.

  A distant corner of her mind remembered a hesitant puppy of a junior-grade lieutenant, but there was no sign of that uncertain young officer today. Rafael Cardones had his priorities exactly right, and the green standby light of the point defense lasers blinked to crimson even before he brought the sidewalls up. There was no time for counter missiles—only the lasers had the response time, and even they had it only under computer command.

  The sidewall generators began spinning up just as the lasers opened fire. An incoming missile vanished, then another and another as the computers worked their way methodically through their assigned threat values. More missiles ripped apart as Apollo’s point defense opened up on the ones speeding towards her, and Honor gripped the arms of her command chair while Nimitz’s tail curled protectively about her throat.

  She’d screwed up. She couldn’t conceive of any reason for Grayson to be doing this, but she’d let them do it. Dear God, if they’d held their fire only another twenty seconds, not even Rafe Cardones’ reactions could have saved her ship! Three wretched little LACs from a planet so primitive it didn’t even have molycircs would have annihilated her entire squadron!

  But they hadn’t held their fire, and her thundering pulse slowed. The Grayson missiles’ low acceleration not only lengthened their flight times but made them easier targets, and they didn’t have laser heads. They needed direct hits, and they weren’t going to get them. Not against Rafe Cardones.

  She looked down again, and her lips drew back. Many of her people must still be rushing to their stations, most of her weapon crews must still be understrength, but her energy weapons flashed uniform crimson readiness.

  “Mr. Cardones,” she said harshly, “you are free to engage.”

  * * *

  Commander Danville bit off a savage curse. He hadn’t been present for Jericho, and he hadn’t really believed the reports of how a single Manticoran ship had killed two light cruisers and a pair of destroyers before the rest of the Fleet took him down. Now he knew he should have. He’d gotten two clean hits on Troubadour, and a drop in impeller strength indicated he’d gotten a piece of the destroyer’s drive, yet he’d whipped over faster than a Masadan ferret to hide his vulnerable flanks.

  The one ship he should have been guaranteed to nail had escaped him, but even the speed of Troubadour’s response paled beside that of the cruisers’ point defense. Bancroft and his brothers massed barely nine thousand tons each. That was far too small to mount worthwhile internal magazines, so they carried their missiles in single-shot box launchers. It reduced the total number they could stow only slightly and let them throw extremely heavy broadsides for their size. Only once per launcher, perhaps, but LACs were eggshells armed with sledgehammers. LAC-versus-LAC engagements tended to end in orgies of mutual destruction; against regular warships, the best a LAC could realistically hope for was to get his missiles off before he was wiped from the universe.

  But Danville’s squadron had been given every possible edge. They’d sent thirty-nine missiles streaking towards Fearless and Apollo with the advantage of total surprise against defenses that weren’t even active—surely one of them should have gotten through!

  But it hadn’t.

  He watched the last missile of his first salvo die a thousand kilometers short of the light cruiser, and threat signals warbled afresh as targeting systems locked onto his tiny ships. Bancroft finished his frantic roll, bringing his unfired broadside to bear, and Lieutenant Early sent a fresh salvo charging towards their enemies, and it was useless. Useless.

  God was going to let them all die for nothing.

  * * *

  Rafe Cardones’ point defense was fully on line now. He didn’t bother with ECM—the range was too short, and according to his data base, Grayson missiles were almost too stupid to fool, anyway. His counter missiles went out almost as the enemy launched, but he left them to Ensign Wolcott. He had other things on his mind.

  His heavy launchers were still coming on line as their crews closed up, but his energy weapons were ready. Dancing fingers locked in the targeting schedule, and a single, big key at the center of his panel flashed, accepting the commands.

  He drove it flat.

  Nothing at all happened for one endless moment. Then Chief Killian’s maneuvers swung Fearless’s starboard side towards the LACs. It was only for an instant . . . but an instant was all the waiting computers needed.

  A deadly flicker sparkled down the cruiser’s armored flank, heavy energy mounts firing like the breath of God, and the range was little more than a quarter million kilometers. No Grayson-built sidewalls could resist that fury at such short range. They did their best, but the beams stabbed through them as if they were paper, and each of those LACs was the target of two lasers and a graser, each vastly more powerful than they themselves mounted.

  Atmosphere spumed out in a shower of debris as HMS Fearless blew Bancroft and her consorts into very tiny pieces.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “How bad is it, Alistair?”

  “Bad enough, Ma’am.” Alistair McKeon’s face was grim. “We’ve lost Missile Two and Radar Three. That leaves point defense wide open on the starboard beam. The same hit carried through into the forward impellers—Alpha Four’s gone, and so is Beta Eight. The second hit came in right on Frame Twenty and carried clear back through sickbay. It took out the master control runs to Laser Three and Missile Four and breached Magazine Two. The magazine’s a total write-off; Laser Three and Missile Four are on line in local control, and we’re repressurizing and rigging new runs to them now, but we lost thirty-one people, including Dr. McFee and two sick berth attendants, and we’ve got wounded.”

  His voice was harsh with pain, and Honor’s eyes were dark as she nodded, but for all that, they both knew Troubadour had been incredibly lucky. The loss of one of her forward missile tubes and an entire magazine had hurt her offensive capability, and Radar Three’s destruction left a dangerous chink in her anti-missile defenses. But her combat power was far less impaired than it might have been, and the casualties could have been much, much worse. She’d been lamed, and until the alpha node was replaced she couldn’t generate a forward Warshawski sail, but she could still maneuver and fight.

  “I came in too fat and stupid,” McKeon went on bitterly. “If I’d only had my sidewalls up, maybe—"

  “Not your fault,” Honor interrupted. “We didn’t have any reason to expect Grayson to open fire on us, and even if we had, it was my responsibility to go to a higher readiness state.”

  McKeon’s lips tightened, but he said no more, and Honor was glad. Whatever was happening, one thing they didn’t need was for both of them to blame themselves for it.

  “I’ll have Fritz Montoya over there in five minutes,” Honor went on when she was certain he’d dropped it. “We’ll transfer your wounded to our sickbay once he’s sure they’re stabilized.”

  “Thank you, Ma’am.” There was less self-blame in McKeon’s voice, but no less anger.

  “But why in God’s name did they fire?” Alice Truman asked from her quadrant of the split screen, green eyes baffled as she voiced the question for them all. “It’s crazy!”

  “Agreed.” Honor leaned back, her own eyes hard, but Alice was right. Even if negotiations had broken down completely, the Graysons must be insane to fire on her. They were already worried over the Masadans—surely they must realize what the Fleet would do to them for this!

  “It seems crazy to me, too,” she went on after a moment, her voice grim, “but as of right now, this squadron is on a war footing. I intend to enter attack range of Grayson and demand an explanation and the stand-down of their fleet. I also intend to demand to speak to our people planet-side. If any of my demands is refused, or if our delegation has been harmed in any way, we will engage and destroy the Grayson Navy. Is that understood?”

  Her subordinates nodded.

  “Commander Truman, your ship will take point. Commander McKeon, I want you tucked in astern. Stay tight and tie into Fearless’s radar to cover the gap in your own coverage. Clear?”

  “Yes, Ma’am,” her captains replied in unison.

  “Very well, then, people. Let’s be about it.”

  * * *

  “Captain? I have a transmission from Grayson,” Lieutenant Metzinger said, and the tension on Fearless’s bridge redoubled. Barely five minutes had passed since the ambush, and unless the Graysons were stupid as well as crazy, they couldn’t possibly expect to talk their way out of this with a message sent before their ships had even opened fire!

  But Metzinger wasn’t finished.

  “It’s from Ambassador Langtry,” she added, and Honor’s eyebrows rose.

  “From Sir Anthony?”

  “Yes, Ma’am.”

  “Put it on my screen.”

  Honor felt a surge of relief as Sir Anthony’s face appeared before her, for the wall of his embassy office was clearly visible behind him, and Reginald Houseman stood beside the ambassador’s chair. She’d been afraid the entire diplomatic staff was in Grayson custody; if they were still in the safety of their own embassy, the situation might not be totally out of control after all. But then the ambassador’s grim, almost frightened expression registered. And where was Admiral Courvosier?

  “Captain Harrington.” The ambassador’s voice was taut. “Grayson Command Central has just picked up a hyper footprint which I assume—hope—is your squadron. Be advised Masadan warships are patrolling the Yeltsin System.” Honor stiffened. Could it be those LACs hadn’t been Grayson ships? Only, if they weren’t, then how had they gotten here, and why had they—?

  But the prerecorded message was still playing, and the ambassador’s next words shattered her train of thought like a hammer on crystal.

  “Assume any ship encountered is hostile, Captain, and be advised there are at least two—I repeat, at least two—modern warships in the Masadan order of battle. Our best estimate is that they’re a pair of cruisers, probably Haven-built.” The ambassador swallowed, but he’d been a highly decorated Marine officer, and he carried through grimly. “No one realized the Masadans had them, and Admiral Yanakov and Admiral Courvosier took the Grayson fleet out to engage the enemy four days ago. I’m . . . afraid Madrigal and Austin Grayson were lost with all hands—including Admirals Courvosier and Yanakov.”

  Every drop of blood drained from Honor’s face. No! The Admiral couldn’t be dead—not the Admiral!

  “We’re in serious trouble down here, Captain,” Langtry’s recorded voice went on. “I don’t know why they’ve held off this long, but nothing Grayson has left can possibly stop them. Please advise me of your intentions as soon as possible. Langtry clear.”

  The screen blanked, and she stared at it, frozen in her command chair. It was a lie. A cruel, vicious lie! The Admiral was alive. He was alive, damn it! He wouldn’t die. He couldn’t die—he wouldn’t do that to her!

  But Ambassador Langtry had no reason to lie.

  She closed her eyes, feeling Nimitz at her shoulder, and remembered Courvosier as she’d left him. Remembered that impish face, the twinkle in those blue eyes. And behind those newer memories were others, twenty-seven years of memories, each cutting more deeply and cruelly than the last, as she realized at last—when it was too late—that she’d never told him she loved him.

  And behind the loss, honing the agony, was her guilt. She’d run out on him. He’d wanted her to stay and let her go only because she insisted, and because Fearless hadn’t been there—because she hadn’t been there—he’d taken a single destroyer into battle and died.

  It was her fault. He’d needed her, and she hadn’t been there . . . and that had killed him. She’d killed him, as surely as if she’d sent a pulser dart through his brain with her own hand.

  Silence enfolded Fearless’s bridge crew as all eyes turned to the woman in the captain’s chair. Her face was stunned as even the total surprise of the LACs’ attack had not left it, and the light had gone out of her treecat’s eyes. He crouched on her chair back, tail tucked in tight, prick ears flat, and the soft, heartrending keen of his lament was the only sound as tears rolled silently down her cheeks.

  “Orders, Captain?” Andreas Venizelos broke the crew’s silence at last, and more than one person flinched as his quiet voice intruded upon their captain’s grief.

  Honor’s nostrils flared. The sound of her indrawn breath was harsh, and the heel of her hand scrubbed angrily, brutally, at her wet face as she squared her shoulders.

  “Record for transmission, Lieutenant Metzinger,” she said in a hammered-iron voice none of them had ever heard, and the communications officer swallowed.

  “Recording, Ma’am,” she said softly.

  “Ambassador Langtry,” Honor said in that same, deadly voice. “Your message is received and understood. Be advised that my squadron has already been engaged by and destroyed three LACs I now presume to have been Masadan. We’ve suffered casualties and damage, but my combat power is unimpaired.”

  She inhaled again, feeling her officers’ and ratings’ eyes on her.

  “I will continue to Grayson at my best speed. Expect my arrival in Grayson orbit in—" she checked her astrogation readout “—approximately four hours twenty-eight minutes from now.”

  She stared into the pickup, and the corner of her mouth twitched. There was steel in her brown eyes, smoking from anger’s forge and tempered by grief and guilt, and her voice was colder than space.

  “Until I have complete information, it will be impossible to formulate detailed plans, but you may inform the Grayson government that I intend to defend this system in accordance with Admiral Courvosier’s apparent intentions. Please have a complete background brief waiting for me. In particular, I require an immediate assessment of Grayson’s remaining military capabilities and assignment of a liaison officer to my squadron. I will meet with you and the senior Grayson military officer in the Embassy within ten minutes of entering Grayson orbit. Harrington clear.”

  She sat back, her strong-boned face unyielding, and her own determination filled her bridge crew. They knew as well as she that the entire Grayson Navy, even if it had suffered no losses at all, would have been useless against the weight of metal she’d just committed them to face. The odds were very good that some of them, or some of their friends on the other ships of the squadron, were going to die, and none of them were eager for death. But other friends had already died, and they themselves had been attacked.

  None of Honor’s other officers had been Admiral Courvosier’s protégée, but many had been his students, and he’d been one of the most respected officers in their service even to those who’d never known him personally. If they could get a piece of the people who’d killed him, they wanted it.